


losing face

by qar



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, IRL Fic, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28248744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qar/pseuds/qar
Summary: Tommy knows things will get better. It's tiring to wait, sometimes.Disclaimer:If any of the creators mention they are uncomfortable with these types of fics I will take this down.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 28
Kudos: 542





	losing face

**Author's Note:**

> tw/suicidal thoughts, mentions of self harm, depression

Because Tommy knows it gets better, but how long is he willing to wait?

He knows it in the people around him- in that uncle he saw during Christmas parties who’d tried to kill himself years ago, who’s now happy and married with kids and a stable support system. He knows it in Wilbur, who’s still struggling, but has built up a wonderful ring of friends to rely on. Hell, he knows it in himself, because he’s fucking depressed but he has good days.

He’s fucking depressed but he has good days. He’s fucking depressed and he’s too scared to ask for help.

Tommy is a coward in many ways. Tommy is a coward in the way fireworks scare him. He’s a coward in the way he doesn’t like dentists. He’s a coward in the way he refuses to kill himself. He’s a coward in the way he refuses to reach out.

And he refuses to reach out because he’s stubborn and unbearably alone. He knows full well that people do love him; the way his parents support him through this career he’s created and feed him and house him, and the way his friends stand to talk to him everyday, and how Wilbur and Phil will slip in little positive affirmations whenever he does something he’s even remotely proud of. There’s almost four million people who love him, yet he’s so fucking alone. Because he’s Tommyinnit, and Tommyinnit is supposed to be happy and childish and immature and is unworthy of support. Tommyinnit doesn’t  _ need _ support, because he’s okay.

He’s okay. He’s okay, he’s absolutely fucking okay. That’s why he’s sick of waking up in the morning. That’s why he closes his eyes and hopes, in some sick way, that he’ll never wake up. Go out peacefully. Not do something harsh.

It’s not like he doesn’t want help. He does, desperately, want help. He’ll stare at the venting channel in one of his friend’s little Discord servers; one with the SBI and Tubbo, another with the entirety of the Dream SMP, maybe one with his real life friends. He wonders- if he sent something, would anyone care? Would anyone reply? Would anyone ask him- hey, Tommy, are you struggling? Are you okay? Will you  _ be  _ okay?

And that’s too scary of a thought, isn’t it, because the one thing Tommy’s always been is a coward. Because right now it feels like he’s struggling, he isn’t okay and he’s never going to be okay. And that answer’s going to disappoint everyone, and that’s all Tommyinnit’s ever done, isn’t it? Be loud, be annoying and disappoint.

It’s bad. It’s really bad. It’s at the point where Wilbur makes a joke about him being a child and Tommy goes quiet, eyes stinging. It’s at the point where Wilbur  _ notices _ that something’s wrong and clarifies, clearly, that it was a joke. It’s at the point where Tommy leaves the call as inconspicuously as he can and sets himself, numbly, on his bed. It’s cool under him when he lays down. It’s cool as he stays there for a full night, which is something that his sleep-deprived ass hasn’t done in a while. It’s cool when he wakes up the next day, chest sore as if he’d been punched, and stays in bed the whole day. He’s tired. He deserves a day in bed, surely. 

And it’s okay if he takes a few days off of streaming, because there’s other people to watch. Two hundred thousand people can spread out pretty easy. Phil’s streams, for example, are pretty interesting. Tommy watches Phil’s stream when he’s in bed, at the same time he’s supposed to be live. He cries when Phil talks about him. He stays in bed for another few hours, even though he could be doing literally anything else.

Everything’s so bright. The light streams in through his windows into his eyes, and he squints and pulls his blanket over his head, making a small noise of discomfort. The glow feels like it burns. He hasn’t gotten out of bed in a bit.

Everything’s so dark. It’s probably like- four am, and the darkness envelops him like a hug he doesn’t want. He stares, blankly, at the ceiling, and holds back a sob. He doesn’t know  _ why  _ he wants to sob.

He pulls himself out of bed for the first time in a few days. He’s been roused, a couple times, by his mother checking his temperature or sliding him a plate of food quietly. It blurs together in a way that leaves him wondering if it really did happen.

His head pounds. It’s not because he’s been staring at a screen for too long, because he hasn’t gotten past his lockscreen these past few days- overcome with an odd nausea upon seeing his notifications, the worried messages of his friends. Maybe it’s the innecessant sporadic sobbing. That’s probably it.

Tommy flinches away when his desktop starts up, lighting up his entire room. He leaves it to load, making his way to the hallway and flicking on his bedroom lights on his way there. The rest of the house is dark, and he doesn’t turn on the bathroom lights when he enters.

The room is freezing. The tiles make his body want to start cramping near immediately, and when he turns on the light and stares himself in the mirror it’s with something akin to apathetic horror. He’s a mess. He looks like someone pathetic, who’s slept in for days straight and hasn’t communicated with anyone. That’s what he is, to be fair.

There’s a razor on the sink when he washes his face and brushes his teeth. It’s been watching him out of the corner of his eye, like a stalker who won’t leave him alone. It stares at him. Tommy looks away, hands in fists tightening and loosening. His fingers are numb from the cold. It’s so cold.

He leaves, turning off the light and padding back to his bedroom, which is illuminated red from his LEDs. His desktop is open, and Discord’s opened itself up. He has so, so many messages. He doesn’t click any, just rests his head against his desk. Wilbur’s in a voice call on one of the servers, despite it being late. Tommy could join. 

All or nothing, Tommy’s brain says. The only thing stopping him from using that razor for its unintended use is self-preservation and cowardice and common sense. He’s scared to cause himself pain. He’s scared of many things. It makes him a coward. All or nothing. Die or don’t die.

He could message Wilbur and tell him he’s struggling so, so bad. He knows he won’t be able to. His voice will clog up and he’ll choke on his words. His hands will yearn to type out ‘i’m scared, help’ and they’ll move for ‘i’m good’ like it’s instinct. He’ll deflect. He’ll change the topic, because he’s scared to talk about himself. Because he’s a coward.

All or nothing. He’s okay. Nothing is wrong. He’ll stream tomorrow. He’s completely fine. No one has to know how fucking tired he is, or how much his body hurts or how deformed his brain is acting. He’ll go with nothing for now.

**Author's Note:**

> not doing very well these days. we just sitting here waiting for things to get better
> 
> tumblr: noorahqar  
> discord: https://discord.gg/w9CwSK26mm (copy paste into a browser)  
> everyone there is fucking amazing :)
> 
> stay safe <3


End file.
